"It's a shame we had to cover the dress. I daresay you'd approve."

Someday.

Somewhere. I need a drink.

Regaining consciousness is a bitch sometimes. I think I was dreaming. And I think it was pleasant. This certainly isn't.

Hello there. Not exactly sure how I got here but I am on what appears to be a yacht somewhere in the middle of the ocean. I'm on the edge (literally and figuratively), looking out to the cold sea, wind whipping at my face. It would all be quite poetic if it wasn't for the C-4 strapped to my chest. I'm shivering, teeth chattering, and I'm unsure if it's from the cold or fear. Oh hell, it's probably both.

I'm held in position by the restraints at my wrists which are tugged very uncomfortably behind my back. The deck is behind me. Any hope I had is probably stuck somewhere in France. I'm not enjoying this whole damsel-in-distress thing. I really don't think it suits me.

"You've received everything you've asked for."

The statement comes from a deep baritone somewhere behind me. It's his voice. The voice. The voice that makes me weak in the knees and so angry sometimes it hurts. Sherlock. Suddenly knowing that he's close, that he's behind me, my resolve crumbles. I feel the tears burning my eyes, the salty spray of the water threatening them to fall. I feel a tightness in my chest, a fear that was more than just the shivering I felt before.

I think deep down I knew I was going to die at the hands of creepy Jim, but I didn't think it would be witness to Sherlock. Death is something I was prepared to deal with on my own, but not around him. Please, God, not around him.

I hear their voices continue a conversation that was started long before I awoke. I can't focus enough to hear the words, my mind is racing and my adrenaline is pumping so hard my temples feel as though they are about to burst. If I die here, in the way Jim intends, I will surely take this entire boat with me. I can stomach dying on my own, but I can't bear the idea of Sherlock dying at my expense.

I kick off my shoes into the ocean, their conversation is heated and tempers are rising. I feel at my restraints, I'm guessing they're handcuffs—cold and sharp. There seems to be a post or plank that I'm resting against. My feet are free. My waist is free. All I need to do is get free of these handcuffs.

Good thing my thumbs are double-jointed.

Whichever thug propped me up here must have assumed the roaring ocean below would be enough to restrain me, seeing as he left the shackles quite loose. Most people would hold against them for their life. I have often been accused of being thoughtless and impulsive.

Sliding my right hand out of the shackle I gingerly hold on to it with my fingertips, careful not to let it escape and bang against the post I'm resting on. Without lifting my head I scan the area closest to my feet, there is no way I can get back on the boat without raising alarm—without setting off this bomb. The alternative is….

My breath is jagged as I realize my alternative. I'm in a fix. Unfortunately I don't have an option to keep the bomb from detonating. The only choice is where it will detonate. I inhale and I feel the tears streak my cheeks. If Sherlock wasn't a few paces behind me I would be stronger than this—I wouldn't be crying. Although honestly, crying seems quite appropriate now.

I grip the post between my hands and remind myself that I'm wearing Westwood. "Pull yourself together," I mutter to myself. I don't hear their voices anymore, it's too quiet.

He knows. My choice has been made. I love you, Sherlock Holmes.

I hear my name tear through his lips as I let go and fall into the water. It is so cold it makes me feel as though I've fallen into a sea of glass. Unable to open my eyes I struggle with the vest, fully aware that I can detonate it myself by removing it. What can I say? My judgement is clouded.

I'm slowly losing my breath as I remember an age old trick most women are quite familiar with. The act of removing your bra without unhooking it. It's one of those things you do when you're too lazy to take off your shirt but you just can't deal with those oppressive straps anymore. It requires a lot of finessing and wiggling and luckily I've done it a million times.

I start to lose feeling in my legs as I manage to squirm out of the vest. I'm amazed it hasn't gone off and part of me wonders if I'm already dead. I push the vest away, and using my remaining breath, the remaining feeling my arms, I try to swim in the opposite direction. My brain is telling me it's futile—where am I swimming to? What does it matter?

My pace begins to slack and I finally open my eyes, seeing the light shimmering through the top of the water. I am so much farther down than I thought. Releasing my breath I feel the water enter my lungs. I relax, it is done.

From my right I hear a pop and before I'm able to open my eyes I feel myself pushed violently in the water. I'm moving away, my skin is tingling. I'm moving so fast, so far away.